I have always had a way with words. It came most naturally to me, of course not many other things do. And somewhere along the line, I wanted to be a WordStar. I thought that was my true calling. I wanted to accomplish everything that one could with words; to be able to use every word in every way possible and be able to express everything in words thus mastered.
It was never laboured. I hated it. It helped of course that I was a natural. I never needed to mug up dictionary, and never needed to read a book for more than a few days to be able to grasp most of it. That may be why I got through the three year literature course, more comfortably than needs be. I read prescribed novels and plays as bed time stories, enjoyed them, and was still able to do well in the exams.
However, it all seems to be changing now. It is such a drag getting through a novel I would have devoured just a few months ago. And as if the gift of words just left me for someone else, I just can't seem to piece a few of them together without feeling utterly humbled.
It is not as if I have deserted my true calling. I know that is the only real substance I have and would cut a poor figure without my words. Perhaps it is just the career I am getting in that is taking away from me my strength. I am poised to enter a world that will rather have academically tabulated reports than a piece of my mind.
Just before I began writing this, I saw this quote by Auden, "No opera plot can be sensible, for people do not sing when they are feeling sensible." I must say he meant it for all art forms of which writing is a part. May be now that I have let myself venture towards the path of these sensible people, I can never be the writer that I wanted to be. I can still write, but it will be largely tempered by the dictates of the sensible world. It is another matter that this is exactly the reason why I got this block afflicting all writers to begin with. I hate sensible pieces that are just reports and would rather not do any of them. But then again, I have let a lot of things become bigger than what I would want them to be.
The silver lining, though, is that even when I was at the height of my creativity, most of my works were imprinted only on my mind. For though sloth did keep me from taking the trouble to pen down my words, I had this feeling too that words written on the soul last longer. It was my belief that when you write something to be published, you are being unnatural; you are letting yourself be sold. So, I let it be that the best of my writings be only in mind. Nobody need see them. I had a lot of things on my mind, enabled by my word power and I captured all of them there. I am getting overloaded now though.
I will still play one last throw of the dice before I even think of shelving my true calling, even if only for a while. Every time I try a new medium, I can feel the stimuli. I moved on from long hand to word processing, and now it is time to try blogging, a struggler's Mecca. I am not sure how it will turn out, but you can track my progress here...And till the next time, good bye.